The Potter of Thedas
by Night Hawk 97
Summary: "I think I may have done something colossally stupid. Actually, that I did something isn't under question, it's whether I'm going to regret it that has yet to be determined." Harry crosses through the veil and ends up in Thedas. He learns that magic isn't welcome there, and that Templars are his new least favourite minions. Also, the world may be ending, but that's not his problem.
1. Don't provoke the trees

**Inspiration: Middle of Nowhere by Wyolake (a fantastic story, worth reading)**

**Info: this will be a relatively long story, I can't promise frequent updates, and Harry won't just be following the Warden through the game plot. Canon may never be the same.**

**Warnings: language, implied slash, other implied relationships**

…

**Day 14 – Afternoon, Dalish camp**

I can't really express how relieved I am to finally be able to write this down. Any longer and I may have gone crazy. That certainly wouldn't be healthy for anyone, not where I am at the moment.

Speaking of… fourteen(ish) days ago I think I may have done something colossally stupid. Actually, that I did something isn't under question, it's whether I'm going to regret it that has yet to be determined.

This is a mess. Did anyone understand that? I certainly didn't. Merlin, it's been too many years since I've tried to put thoughts to paper.

My name is Harry Potter, but if one more person asks me to fix their mother's urn, that may have to change. Other than in the too-literal sense, the name means nothing here. That, at least, is a relief. I was sick of being anyone special when I was eleven. Pah, "the boy-who-lived". What a stupid thing to revered for. Not dying. Please. Not particularly unique, seeing as everyone alive can claim the same.

That sounded bitter. I'm not, really, just a little perturbed. That stupid name is more relevant now, anyway.

Forget this, I should explain. I have been here long enough, it may help me to arrange my thoughts. From the beginning, then. Well, _this_ particular beginning.

I woke up with a killer hangover, so it wasn't surprising, at first, that I was horizontal, nor that I was lying on something supremely uncomfortable. I finished the standard pants check (still on) with a relieved sigh. What did get my attention were the breeze and the smell of fresh air overpowering my body aroma. I hadn't dealt with fresh air in, well, it'd have to be about a century.

Before you make the old-geezer jokes, let us just establish that I look good for my age. Better than you would, no doubt.

Anyway. Nature hadn't been the same since people started to run out of wood. Then the farms couldn't produce enough food. Maybe because they had to encroach on farmland so they had somewhere to put everyone. Go figure.

We tried living off the insects for a while, but it's hard to support a population of 27 billion, even with them. When, inevitably, there were no animals, we mainly lived off artificial protein. Actual food was very scarce, only for the richest of the rich, and even then, they could only afford to splurge a couple times a week. Luckily I'd acquired quite a bit of wealth over the years.

The magic community were comfortable in their seclusion, at first. For decades, as muggle technology progressed, we waited for them to discover us and call for our extermination, but it wasn't to be. Our downfall came from muggles on a more indirect level. We didn't know, back then, that our magic was connected to the Earth. The degrading quality of magic was a hint, but we never realised the implications until it was too late.

Magic didn't really die, that is too abrupt. It just… passed into stories, more and more forgotten with every child that was born a squib. I left the magical world and entered seclusion after people noticed I wasn't aging. I don't know how much, if anything, remains.

It felt like bubotuber pus flowed through my veins most of the time while magic faded, but I couldn't go with it. In the early decades, while I was still mostly coherent, I worked that being the master of the Deathly Hallows wasn't just a spooky title. You'd think that as Death's master I'd be able to save the people I cared about or depart myself, but no.

At least they didn't run out of alcohol.

In relatively recent times, I got inebriated more often, and I got very well acquainted with drinking my money away. What they say about money not equalling happiness? They're right. Ordinarily, I wouldn't recommend alcohol either, but if you have a dying planet pressing down on your every fibre, the numbness helps.

But notice the past tense: I don't have to deal with that anymore!

Which brings me nicely to the point I was trying to make. I had a killer hangover, and how refreshing that was! The huge weight that had accumulated over the years was gone, I only had a blinding headache, it felt like I'd been kissed by a Dementor, but it was glorious!

I jumped up and immediately fell over. It was a cushioned landing – there were actual leaves. If there were also sticks and rocks jabbing uncomfortably into my chest, well… that's superfluous.

The trees, the green, the lack of oily stench; I admit it actually brought me to tears.

I could feel the ambient magic and for the first time in over a hundred years, and the magic in my blood sang in harmony. I'd never experienced a world so untouched, the power was overwhelming.

My memory is still fuzzy, the last few days before my arrival are blurred. The last thing I remember, I was adding to my research notes on the Veil in what used to be the Department of Mysteries. I wasn't making much progress, though it'd been countless years. I remembered opening the whisky and… oh dear, I didn't, did I? I'd entertain such thoughts numerous times, sure… but no, I couldn't have apparated in my sleep, that only happened that one time, and there was no trees left on the planet… Oh hell, it appears I may have walked through the Veil of Death. I have to conclude that I'm in either another time, dimension or world. Woops. But perhaps… could Sirius have come through here also, I–

I'll stop getting off track, I promise. Eventually.

So I lay on the ground, scrabbling in the leaf litter, bawling, and a tree stomped on me.

It freaking _hurt_, I tell you.

Well, I cast a paralysis spell on it. I was still unaccustomed to the energy dancing readily at my fingertips, so I may have over done it slightly. It didn't fly _too_ far. I wish I still had my wand, imagine the feats of magic I could contrive with that additional focus…

Ah, but nostalgia doesn't help me (Life Lesson #172, year of 2038).

Upon observation, the plant thing wasn't like one of Neville's monstrosities, it was just a regular tree, albeit more like a giant bowtruckle. But looking back, I don't recall the standard foliage being so violent.

The shadows descended from the treetops and night fell in the forest after a few hours. It was tedious to walk as a human, but my animagus form had much less trouble. Immediately upon changing, I raced through the trees, revelling in stretching my legs properly after so long. I hadn't run as a stag since the air became too toxic to breathe without the masks.

I hadn't seen any people, maybe they didn't even exist here. There was nothing to bother me, not even the wolves patrolling the area. They seemed curious but they did not close in. My presence seemed to make them uneasy – a mark for their intelligence.

There were others also, mostly angry rodents and large white deer with a pair of intertwined antlers. They were quite beautiful to behold, I admit I was a little jealous.

About a week was spent this way, running, eating occasionally, exploring the vast forest. There was a strange sense to the place, it felt almost like the Veil back home. In some places, if I concentrated hard enough I imagined I could hear the voices still.

I met the Elder Tree, as it preferred to be called, as a deer, but he saw through me right away. It was more intelligent than anyone I'd met since the last Stark passed away. It spoke in riddles and rhyme, everything had double meaning. He spun great tales of the forest, described both the blessed and horrible history it had witnessed. I repaid in turn with dirty limericks. I suspect it is even older than I am, but far more mature.

The E.T. taught me that in this place, the Veil is a barrier between the world and the Fade. Because of the great many deaths, it is weakened and has torn in some places. Coincidental synthesis of terms? Doubtful.

I find myself interested. The spirit of the Elder Tree came originally from this Fade, but the concepts in the explanations go a little over my head. I shall have to research this somehow.

By my count, thirteen days after my arrival, I met my first people. Three women, two men, an elf, a giant and a dog. Doesn't that just sound like the beginning of a joke gone wrong? Before any potential readers draw any misguided conclusions, I should mention that he was clearly not a house-elf, rather, he was of the kind that adolescent girls would squeal over. And the giant, well, not the size of Gwarp, or even Hagrid, but he was still considerably larger than me.

I followed them and watched for a while as they cut their way through to wherever they were going. They ran into just about every potentially dangerous thing possible, the poor sods. They held up well against the bears, wolves, trees, evil vaguely goblin-like creatures that smelt absolutely horrendous, and I think I saw a few zombies enter the fray at one point. They were gloriously effective with their blades, bows and – I scarcely believe it myself – magic.

They didn't fulfil fantasies of shining knights. Actually, the armour that adorned them was patched and well-worn. One of the women was wearing what appeared to be an improvised loincloth. She was the one that identified me as a shapeshifter after the dog picked up my scent, and the next thing I knew I was being threatened at sword-point.

Thankfully, they opted for a talk first approach. Their language was an old form of English, what I'd grown up on. I was out of practice; it was touch and go for a while.

The leader was a thickset fellow, dark brown hair and a smooth tan. His broadsword was probably as tall as I was. I complied with his oh so gracious request to show my true face, but not because I was intimidated in any way. Obviously.

I changed back smoothly and in such a way that gracefully completed the transition from standing to sitting without my prompting– I fell on my arse.

The cave-witch raised an imperious eyebrow, and the others called me all sorts of names I have yet to assign meaning to. For future reference, I have apostate (form the old hag), Saarebas (scary giant), and grwhff (dog) to research.

I hadn't been disembowelled before, but I had been stabbed. It was not pleasant and I did not want to repeat the experience. "Good morning," I started nicely.

For some reason, this made the leader role his eyes heavenward in apparent despair. "Great. Another sassy interrogation. I had hoped yours would be the last, Zevran."

"What can I say? Perhaps I am just an inspiration, yes?" The elf had an old European accent, maybe Spanish or Italian. I didn't bother to work it out further; too much thinking could jam my brain.

"Why do you follow us?" The giant brought things back to the point.

"My name is Harry Potter, and I was a little bored, to be honest," I got to my feet and dusted off my pants, mindful of the sword at my throat. Their eyes narrowed as they took in my strange clothes. They were a little eccentric, but, meh, you get over feeling self-conscious with age.

"So you decided to follow a party of armed travellers accompanied by a man in Templar armour?" Said the blond man incredulously, gesturing to his armour.

"Templars?" I prompted, figuring that term, or at least the fancy dress, was meant to mean something to me.

"You _are_ a mage, are you not?"

"Magically inclined, yes."

"You should probably know that the Templars are an order that hunt mages outside the Circle," blondie mutter sarcastically.

"Oh." Well, that sounds like fun.

"_'Oh'_," the cave-witch parroted, golden eyes narrowed, "How _you_ managed to survive past infancy I will never guess."

"I don't make a habit of keeping up with society." Some weapons had been lowered, but held ready, evidently not deeming me a great threat.

"Right, well, this may be too soon, but where am I? I asked the trees, but they couldn't give me much beyond 'big old forest'," I asked, widening my eyes to give the whole naïve effect a greater spin. So I mess with peoples' heads – an old man's got to have a hobby.

The leader answered, "The Brecilian Forest."

As if that'd help me. "Country?"

"Ferelden," the red headed women answered slowly, exchanging one of Those Looks with her companions.

I scoured memories of history lessons… didn't ring a bell. "Ok, imagine I grew up under a rock."

Their expressions assured me that they had already. "South of Thedas."

"Oh, is that what this place is called." That confirmed it. I was not in my home world. Yet they still had English, possibly Spanish/Italian, deer, magic and squirrels. How peculiar.

"Where are you from?" Red asked in a soft tone that belied my mental state. I fought to keep a straight face.

"My aunt and uncle raised me in the mountains with my cousin," I decided to keep my sob story between a mix of memories and necessary embellishments. "They were quite well off and Uncle Vernon worked with tools. The nearest settlement was a town called Whinging, I think, but I never went there. They didn't care much for me, said I was a freak and was too dangerous. My family didn't tell me much about the world. Didn't tell me much about anything really, questions were banned. I'm pretty sure they only looked after me because of some misplaced loyalty my aunt had to my dead mother. Course, I didn't understand the danger until I accidently transported myself to the roof to escape their fists. They were afraid of magic, I think. After that, they gave me a book, locked me in a cupboard and told me to control it but never use it."

"You taught yourself to shape shift? Truly?" The cave-witch sounded doubtful.

I nodded, "Oh yes, the magic was all quite easy once they took me away from my family when I was eleven, and I didn't have to worry about uncle punishing me. Templars, did you call them? I just wanted to get away quickly, I deduced that with all that armour they would have trouble catching a deer."

"Enough. Let us move on," the giant turned away and trundled up the path.

The leader shrugged, gestured for me to follow, and set off after him.

As we walked, after I applied feather-light charms to all the packs, bar the giant's (he growled at me when I came too close), I was introduced to the team. Aedan and Alistair, the human men, were Grey Wardens, whose duty it was to stop the Blight. The two were flabbergasted when I knew nothing of the Blight but urged me to never believe a word Loghain said. All these things were explained to me, as I played the ignorant but curious child, and I got the answers I was looking for.

The dog was a war hound, Ferelden's trademark Mabari, called Archer. Morrigan was the scantily clad cave-witch (more like marsh-witch, really). Sten was a Qunari who kind of wanted to take over the world and followed the Qun (I gather it is some kind of religion?). Leliana, the red head, was a minstrel turned priest turned kickass archer, who, according to her, was sent by the Maker's (another religion, perhaps?) own guidance. Wynne was an elderly healer who had decided to tag along with them after the rescued the Tower from a swathe of demons. Zevran, the elven Antivan Crow, was the latest, he'd been recruited to join the group not a week ago, after he failed to assassinate them. That was quite apparent in how he was treated, but he didn't seem to care, and he continued to lighten the mood and divert attention by flirting outrageously. After succeeding in turning Alistair a shade of red Vernon would have envied, the Antivan turned to what should have been an easily embarrassed mark – the 'young' urchin. Too bad for him.

"So, Harry, is it? From the secluded walks of life, and you have been on the run for how long?" He asked, falling into step beside me.

"Over six years," I answered after a moment of contemplation, "Why?"

"I imagine you would not have had many chances to indulge in the pleasures of youth while travelling without female companionship. Or male companionship, perhaps that is what you prefer?" He practically purred.

I smiled, trying to keep it amiable instead of giving away my lie, "Oh, on the contrary, just the other week I saw this doe, a splendid creature – you could not imagine the hindquarters on that animal, lean and muscular, yet perfectly proportioned, it defies belief! Really, what was I to do? She was wild, _carnal_ and –"

Alistair, within earshot, stumbled and walked into a tree. The sound was remarkable – like several dozen pots and pans bashed together.

Zevran stopped. Amber eyes narrowed suspiciously, "You are having me on, no?"

I tried, really I did, but Alistair's face was too much. I cracked a grin, "Maybe."

"Rascal! You almost had me there, though, now I admit I am intrigued with the possibilities. Say, Morrigan–"

"Oh, dear Maker. Aedan, there are two of them!" Alistair clanked loudly as he ran to get far ahead.

It was a fun day.

That night, I just curled into a ball, set some mild warming and water repellent charms, and let the others worry about those unnecessary tents.

Ah, dinner is ready, prepared so graciously by the resident hag. I will finish this another time.


	2. Elves are like dragons

**A/N: I should clarify, I think, that the slash in this story will not be a main plot point. In fact, no type of romantic relationship will feature majorly for two reasons: I can't write them, and they bore me.**

**When I warned about implied slash, perhaps I should have just given a warning for Zevran? The innuendos, sleazy jokes, or whatever the not-Harry characters get up to in their spare time is just about it (and, yes, slash ****_will_**** be mentioned because it's Zevran, there are brothels, and no force on Thedas would keep him out of them) That is not to say that anything explicit will be mentioned, just alluded to. **

...

**Day 15 – Morning, Dalish camp**

Well, the chronicles continue! I may as well, I've made it this far.

Ah, yes.

The forest was being unhelpful and kept turning the party around. The type of magic responsible was beyond my expertise and defied my fiddling, so I suggested I lead the party to the Elder Tree for help.

We got pretty far, but on the way we were beset by werewolves.

Bad memory montage.

There were many and they fought tactically, not like the rabid beasts I grew accustomed to in the War. By Merlin, they are strong, and with the teeth, the yellow eyes, they are terrifying creatures. But they are intelligent, they are not wild beasts, apparently they even talk on occasion.

If not without reason, why do they provoke the elves?

Too bad I will likely have to wait for answers.

Leliana was bitten in the attack. One snuck up behind her and took a chunk out of her shoulder. She should be fine if the Warden ends the curse, but she is infected.

I find myself sceptical. Here, apparently it can be cured if the right beasty is killed. I certainly don't recall any sort of simplicity in lycanthropy.

Leliana had to return to the Dalish for aforementioned reasons, Wynne went to keep her as healthy as possible and Sten trundle along for protection. I was also ordered to go, probably to separate me from Zevran.

I like the elf, so far. Yes, he is an assassin, a professional murderer, proud of it, even. If my skills had been hard earned the way he alludes to, I imagine I would be too.

But the constant riddling, teasing, it kept the atmosphere light. You really notice his absence when you have to travel for a whole day with a semi-comatose musician, an old hag and a stoic warrior giant, 90% of whose speech is reserved only for saying 'no'.

But at least Sten is _quiet_. Honestly, if I have to hear one more variation of 'you are an untrained disaster in the making', I think I will set the forest. On. Fire.

And wont that just prove the point I'm trying to make about my control?

Solution: I took up my animagus form and trotted ahead until the blanketing leaves muted Wynne's nagging about illegal magic.

It took us a full day, but we got to the Dalish camp before sundown. The Keeper (their leader, or is it guardian?) has left for the forest, but his apprentice, another mage, allowed Leliana to be treated with the rest of the infected. She made a great show of how gracious we should feel, as if she was going out of her way to let the Wardens save her clan.

I had a look around a bit, tried to talk to the elves and learn about their culture, but the welcome was… frosty into the range of liquid nitrogen. So they don't like humans. Noted and ignored.

Well, it was ignored until I had a sword thrown at me. How was I supposed to know asking about their tattoos is akin to cross-cultural suicide? No one tells _me_ these things.

Really, if Wynne has to talk, can't she at least make herself useful by mentioning these things _before_ she has to stitch my arm back together, instead of prattling on about the demons that want my soul?

Note: have heard much (too much) about these demons, must find out what they are. So far only sound like a terminal magic disease, but doubt this is the case.

After fleeing very in a very manly way from the hellion out for my blood, I spent an hour talking to Leliana. Well, I listened while she told grand tales about the Dalish. It kept her mind off the pain and the encroaching fever, while I learned.

And now I am caught up. I have been in this camp for a day and already I can feel the strain on my shoulders loosening.

There is nothing to do besides run in the forest while waiting from the others to return. The novelty has quite worn off by now, I need something new to occupy my mind.

Maybe I will see if I can produce a dagger from somewhere and learn how to fight. It had been a while since I pursued a new skill, and I usually excel at the physical ones. Whittling– now that was a disaster, but polo, back when it was still played, was a great choice of pastime.

Speaking of… perhaps if the elves removed the branches from their arses, they could be persuaded to play polo? I know they don't usually ride their deer-halla things –and wasn't that made stringently clear?– but I think I can wear them down.

Then again, maybe not.

I have a lot of time to pass, if only just until the Wardens and co return, then I can decide my next course of action. Until then, yes, I think I will undertake this dagger craft, several styles seem similar to Japanese duelling, I suspect I adapt that with ease…

Until later, maybe. It depends how badly I offend people and/or injure myself today.

...

**Day 16 – Night, Dalish camp**

Trouble in paradise.

Wynne has taken it upon herself to 'correct my education'. She cornered me and played on my reluctance to attack a little old lady. If she tries to tell me how connect with my magic again, I will dash my moral reservations entirely.

I picked up whatever she taught me very quickly, whether because I had years of experience with similar things or just because I am relatively powerful here, I do not know. Either way, it helped my claims of being a remarkable shape shifting prodigy.

I finally convinced her to tell me how to use a simple ice spell. She claimed that it took days of study and weeks of practice. That was rather haughty of her, I performed it with the staff in an under three hours.

Magic is just so easy here. Truly, like a breath of fresh air. Comparatively, at Hogwarts the magic was hard to grasp, restricted somehow. But here it is literally at my fingertips – with enough intent and I can cool my drinks, the spell or hand movements aren't even necessary to shape the willpower. Merlin, I love it.

I hadn't used a staff before. That, at least, was something new I could play with. Of course, that was only when Wynne had her back turned, because a staff would be too powerful a weapon for a young man with no formal education. They aren't as powerful as wands – no, that isn't quite right… they are no so efficient. I don't think they need to be because magic is still so healthy here.

That does remind me. When the hag healed my arm from the evil hellion, I also got the impression of a less economical use of magic than I am familiar with. Here, they do not use the incantations or wand movements necessary for precision. Instead, Wynne just pushed her magic into the area with the general intent to heal.

In the era that I attended Hogwarts, using magic in such a way would have required a Dumbledore-level of power. Wynne is not that proportionally strong, so instead magic may be comparatively smooth flowing. The steps that we'd taken to more economically use magic _must_ have been the product of forced adaption due to the lowering reserves available to us, but this world is still alive.

But wandless magic is possible here as it was in my Hogwarts era, it required more concentration but no more energy than wand magic. Perchance I have just learnt better control, a more efficient use, of my magic, wand and wandless alike, out of necessity in a dying world…

If so, then conceivably I am _not_ more magically powerful than the mages here. Huh, there's a thought.

Oh, there is a commotion at camp, lots of shouting. I can't rightly tell if the disruption is good or bad, but it sounds exciting.

Even if it is nothing, I think I will taunt some more elves afterwards. They're so tetchy, it's like tickling a sleeping dragon.

Either way, I likely will not be returning to this tonight.

Later.


	3. Cheese demons prevail

**Sorry this is a bit late, I kind of dislocated my finger last night. Bit inconvenient.**

**Day 20 – Lunch, a road in the forest**

The commotion I mentioned was the recovery of those infected. I was quite relieved to see the colour return to Leliana cheeks.

For some reason she thought that would be a good time to mention that; "For a moment, I think I felt the Maker watching over me. He lead me onto the quest, guided me to the Warden, but it is comforting to think He might be observing still."

"Devine supervision… does that happen often around here?"

"Probably not as often as people claim. But I know what I saw." I still quite like her, even though I'm now quite sure she's a few fists short of a melee. She picked up on that.

"You think I'm crazy."

"I never said that was a _bad_ thing." I'm liberal with my opinions on the insane. My criticism would only be hypocritical.

Where oh where have I been for the last few days? Running. Running and hiding until the group returned.

Note for the curious: do not ask an elf to instruct you in Dalish dagger fighting unless prepared to have that elf try and shove a knife somewhere the sun doesn't shine, which you will only evade if you are sufficiently skilled in the art of legging it from psychotic females.

I never thought I'd be grateful I'd married, but there you go.

Long story short, the Keeper died to protect his clan and end the werewolf curse, and the werewolves had apparently reverted to people who are now loose in the forest. The elves among them were welcomed back, the humans left to figure it out for themselves.

Oh, and it seems Morrigan ended up with a magic staff made of _Elder wood_. That stupid stick gives me the tingles –the tingles, I tell you!– if I get too close. My life is officially a case of freaking déjà vu.

I am now determined to avoid Morrigan even more than I would usually. She keeps giving me funny looks, like she can't decide whether I would serve her dastardly purposes better if I was roasted or fried.

Between her and the Dalish, I'm beginning to suspect a Hate on Harry club.

The Dalish _really_ hate humans. I've managed to firmly establish this as a general FACT after _much_ experimentation, but imagine my surprise when they also held reservations towards Zevran.

I asked him about it, and he explained that the elves divided into two main groups after they were freed from enslavement; the very proud Dalish and the second-class 'flat-eared' city elves. That doesn't make much sense to me, and I assume the ear slur is more philosophical than physical because Zevran's ears are delectable.

Whatever, I do not pretend to understand the circumstances.

I spent an hour endearing myself to the Mabari by throwing a stick for the tireless beast, then tracked Aedan down after dinner last night. They are going to Redcliffe next for some Arl's army, after stopping in at Denerim for supplies and to the gauge the federal situation.

"Can I come with you, help stop the Blight?" I asked without preamble.

Aedan's eyes were shadowed. "Wynne approached me earlier. She asked that we escort you to the Templars so that you can get safely to the Tower."

"The same Tower that was only recently relieved of its demon infestation?" I made face.

"That'd be the one," the man grimaced.

Whatever the Warden decides, I will not be going to some prison. "Well, I'm not really interested in being locked in a broken tower. I might study there, but after it's put back in one piece and the Templars are no longer so… twitchy. You already have one apostate with you, what's another?"

"I trust that Morrigan's mother, as wacky as she may be, taught her about the dangers of demons. You had no instruction," he pointed out. Granted, I don't know about demons, but nothing has bothered me since I arrived, it seems no different to my home world.

All I understand is that they should come for me offering goodies while I dream. I wonder what Wynne would say about the one I had last night… something about going down a ski slope on a block of cheese?

She wouldn't approve, I'm sure. Alistair might though. Or the idea of a cheese demon might just ruin his appetite.

Still, this is a large information gap for me and I do need to learn it in case these demons are more than superstition.

"But you have the old preacher travelling with you. I'm sure Wynne wouldn't hesitate to lecture me at every possible moment." My arguments seemed to lessen his resolve some.

"I'll speak to the others," Aedan decided. "You can travel with us for now, and if necessary the Templars in Redcliffe will give you safe passage over."

"Good enough," I smiled disarmingly, and flounced away. Upon spotting Alistair arguing with Archer over the best way to carry a pike, I changed trajectory and went to watch the show.

The agreement is good for me, I think. I will have something to do, get to experience new cultures, get to know the people around me, and by the time we part ways –whether it is at Redcliffe or not– I should have a better idea of where I want to go from there. Besides, I can't stay in this forest forever; the boredom would eventually kill me, and I don't have a map.

Beyond wandering, my distant future plans only consist of seeing if my situation has happened before. Perhaps to a giant shaggy black dog as a random, nonspecific example.

Our stay in the Dalish encampment had been extended beyond our welcome several times over (cool though that welcome may have been) and Aedan planned to move us out before we could make it worse.

We left early this morning, packs magically lightened. I was pulling my weight, just not literally.

The atmosphere is best described as familial. Alistair and Morrigan were like two small children at loggerheads, Leliana was enthusing on her interpretation of the Maker with traditional grandma Wynne, Sten was stoic and Aedan walked beside him, probably only because he was mercifully quiet. Zevran and I were the crazy uncles that every family has but denies knowing. That's us, the pariahs.

The assassin and the dangerous, unchecked mage. They all listen to Wynne too much, I'll be fine. I've gotten the basic demon tempting lecture twice already since we've been on the road. Now, if I do end up in the Fade (good luck to it if that be the case) I sincerely hope I'm not stupid enough to fall for someone promising the world with not repercussions. At my age, that'd be embarrassing. I'm sure that –

We're moving on.

…

**Day 21 – Morning, a road some place else**

The light rain woke me bright and early. It reminds me of what England used to be like, before the weather was taken out of nature's hands. The seasons in this country, as I suspected, alternate between rainy and snowy.

I had to place a very effective water repelling ward above my paper, which was _almost_ challenging without a wand. After all my muttering Alistair thinks I've started a cheese-demon cult. I _may_ have led him on a bit but… guilty as charged.

Still, the storms are refreshingly random. They come from seemingly nowhere and can hang around for minutes or hours, but the land afterwards always smells alive. (Alive smells a lot like wet dog).

The novelty won't wear off quickly, especially because Wynne disapproves of my unnatural love of miserable, freezing torrential downpours. As if unpredictability could ever be a hassle after a hundred or more years of monotonous _just the right_ amount.

There is a small problem, though. There are only four tents.

Aedan and Alistair share, and occasionally Archer turns on the puppy eyes and joins them. Similarly, Wynne and Leliana are together, but Morrigan and Sten each get their own. I gather no one was brave enough to sleep near them.

The first night I met them, in the forest, I was down for the count before the others even started preparing to drop off, so I didn't notice then that Zevran gets his limbs bound and ends up tousled to a log all night. Whoever is on watch gets to keep an eye on him as well.

This may have been necessary weeks ago when they'd just converted him to the Dark Side, but I wonder why they bother continuing the practice. There would be much easier times to kill them than when they are sleeping, and I'm pretty sure that it only takes him a moment to loosen the knots. Maybe a little longer if they're Leliana's.

The assassin just leers, jokes crudely and puts up with it. Either he's biding his time, in which case he's certainly _taking_ his damn time, or he can't be such a bad guy if he doesn't contest that indignity for their peace of mind.

Last night I cast a warming charm on him in exchange for stories.

"My home, the beautiful and glorious capital, Antiva City, is famous for its merchants, fine goods, beautiful women and of course the handsome assassins. It is a trading city, built by the ocean, so the breeze keeps the streets from smelling too much like piss and fish in the rich districts. Antivans do nothing by halves – the rich are very rich, very powerful indeed, but there are actually not all that many of them."

Ah, power dynamics. Those never fail to provide plentiful feeding grounds for those who can take advantage of it. People always do.

"The corrupt hold the coin, they keep assassins like me in business. The Crows are the power and the Merchant Princes direct it. The Princes are constantly at odds, each has a group of Crows under their employ. Just avoiding wiping our organisation out is a very complicated process; we have a hard won reputation for finishing the job and maintaining client loyalty."

"I imagine." And I tried to. I do not think I have ever been in a place quite like it. It sounds new. New and _exciting_.

"Yes, but that was not my job. The Masters take care of such matters, I was just an assassin, albeit a very good one. It was not a bad life. Assassins are respected, the pay is good, and there is rarely a shortage of people that need to be disposed of. There were times when I needed a little extra coin, though I learnt early on that I am not the best pick pocket."

"People tend to notice when you grope them," I nodded wisely.

"True," he shamelessly agreed, that grin making an appearance, "I was a much better thief. It is no easy task to navigate the rooftops, but the open windows covert treasures of fine brand if you can get them open. I fell right through the ceiling once, straight into a couple's bed. It didn't go as badly as could have been expected."

Antiva sounds charming. In its own way. It is a place with character. I will visit there some day, before it is no more.

I should be wary of him, given his line of work, but I misplaced my self-preservation in 2069. Dying will do that to you.

Perhaps he isn't trustworthy, but the bounty isn't on _my_ head. Either way, I'd be more inclined to trust him over Sten. The giant's honour will not allow him to kill the Wardens while he is in their service, but if he deems them jeopardising to the mission, I bet he won't hesitate to take over. If they're lucky, they will get advanced warning. Me? He just wants to kill me on principle.

If I've read the assassin correctly, Zevran is a survivor, and probably rightly proud to be so. He is out for himself and until something overpowers the threat the Crows pose to his continued painless existence, he will stick by the Warden for protection. I've cross-referenced his claims about the Crows with Leliana, so I'm almost certain.

Still, if anyone here could mislead me, it'd probably be him. He'd dastardly cunning.

I wonder how long it will take him to work around the wards on this book. Leliana has tried already, poor girl, her hair was static for hours.

Let me know when you do, Zev, I'm a curious guy. I wonder if you will make it this far or if you will only get through the first entry and then proclaim me either mad or dangerous?

Dear Merlin, we're going again. I've been doing too much walking recently. It's been awhile since I've done this much exercise. I think I'll talk with Zevran again. Of the three people with a tangible sense of humour, he is the only one that doesn't seem afraid I'll turn into an abomination in a pinch.

This living is to my style. The wandering brings back certain unpleasant camping memories, but the company is enough to distract me from stewing in my thoughts, whether it's teasing Alistair or trying to annoy a response out of Sten.

The sun is weak and strained through the sparse foliage. There is water in my shoes and dirt in my hair. My legs are sore, and thanks to Wynne my ears are just about bleeding.

I haven't had such desire to _just live_ in a long, long while.


	4. Blame the bandits

**Now that school has started, we can wave goodbye these nice regular updates. I'll get around to them when I can, but grades are going to have to come first.**

**Day 21 – Night, a random roadside camping spot**

You would not _believe_ how difficult it was to get this book out of my bag just now. It was easier when I was just carrying my stuff in my robe pockets, far less hassle involved.

It all started this afternoon.

Actually, going back a little further, I think I may justly lay blame on the rotting corpses of the bandits a ways back. They started it, clearly.

If they hadn't attacked us outside the town, we wouldn't have relieved them of their cash and I wouldn't have been able to buy the pack.

It's an old thing, a bit worn in places, but holds everything I own just fine. That is to say, this book, the pen I so conveniently had on me, and now a blanket that will serve as an improvised bedroll. There is a large main compartment, a flap that folds over the opening and can be tied closed with string, two pockets sown onto the sides, and a diagonal strap that sits comfortable over my shoulder as I walk.

It was a normal, boring pack.

And then I got bored.

We'd managed to find a snug bit of cliff to put out backs against and it sheltered us from the occasional shower. I was exceptionally comfortable sitting by the fire learning the finer details of famous Antivan brothels and eating Alistair's signature dish (he calls it lamb stew, though it has not a bit of lamb and every night, no matter what goes in it, it tastes the same) when Aedan asked me to fetch more fire wood.

A simple task. But I was dry, warm and not feeling overly inclined to move. I couldn't summon the sticks, that would be asking for injury, but my new pack was in reach.

I'd done similar things before, though admittedly not for many years. Animating objects isn't easy; it requires a high level of concentration and control. It is harder than most magic mainly because there are no set spells, it is more of a learned skill that a vocabulary list. Still, it is very useful – just ask the small army of lawn flamingos that saved me from dying once.

Even as I held the material in my fingers, I expected it to go at least little wrong, maybe catch fire at worst.

It certainly didn't go as I expected, it almost worked too well. I gathered my magic, let it flow into the fabric, but I knew something was off when instead of a figurative puppet, it started twitching.

"Got fetch some firewood," I ordered it. It should've obeyed as an animated puppet would, instead it seemed to look at me, the droopy 'mouth' formed by the flap appeared to dip into a frown. After a long moment it did nothing, then I swear it _shrugged_, and ambled off as commanded. It moved like some weird caterpillar, the dog following curiously, and we watched them silently until both were out of sight.

Morrigan was staring at me from her little personal space bubble on the other side of camp, and that was definitely a suspicious glint in her lovely gold eyes. Leliana looked curious, Zevran a bit perturbed, Wynne was bug-eyed, Sten was still stoic, and the Warden was approaching exasperation.

"That was weird," I noted. Probably not the vote of confidence they needed to hear.

Alistair seemed to agree. He'd paused, spoon halfway to mouth, and was muttering something about me being in league with cheese demons.

There was some scraping, a little ruffling of fabric over leaves, and the bag returned triumphant, bulky lumps revealing its payload.

I reached out to grab it when it got close enough, but it shrunk back defiantly. Bloody luggage.

"Don't be like that," I said sternly, "Hand them over."

The frayed edges of the fabric bristled. In hindsight it's kind of cute but back then I was imagining it as a cat with its hackles up, the stupid thing.

When asking (demanding, really) doesn't work, I tend to drop back into habitual threatening.

"Spit it out or I will pick you apart at the seams."

Various twigs and small branches were quickly divulged, and it scuttled off to hide against the wall in what was definitely a sulk.

Hah, that showed it.

"What–"

"I seem to have created a semi-sentiment backpack," I answered the inevitable prematurely.

Really, I swear I don't _mean_ for these things to happen. Well, I enjoy them once they do, but I wouldn't have though to sink to that level until the spell went wrong, so it was purely unintentional, I assure you.

I didn't bother to inform my travelling companions of my accident. Far better for them to cling to _some_ hope that I know what I'm doing.

Leliana had gone over and was crouched beside it. She patted it, making the dog quite jealous, and cooed as it responded.

"You should name it! Oh I know; call it Shmeebles."

I huffed indignantly, "It's a bag. And if it was going to be called anything, it'd be Tod, or something."

I'm pretty sure that breathing thing it just did was a huff. I can't imagine why– my naming skills are vastly better than Leliana's.

I only found out later, when it came time to wrestle my book from it, that the bag preferred Shmeebles. It refuses to answer to anything else, probably as payback for the seams comment.

It's either very uppity or it's conspiring against me. Wouldn't release my book until I said please.

**...**

**Day 22 – Night, camp**

Well, I'm still unbound. I had expected them to have me tangled tighter than they do Zevran, by now.

It was way less fun than that sentence can suggest when viewed from a certain angle.

Morrigan confronted me about suspicions right in the middle of camp, and, you know what, it's probably just easier to write it this way:

"Tis a strange thing. You are not so young in years as you seem, but neither are you possessed by something older." She prowled around me much like I imagine a tiger might've.

The gig was a bust. I dropped my innocent façade and drew myself up to my full (miserably short) height. She was still taller. That really grates on me.

"I'm just older than I look," I hedged wearily. Morrigan's comments had drawn the whole crowd.

Then, as if marvelling over the weather, she said; "You are more than that. Death clings to you like a blanket."

How in Merlin's baggy underpants did she work that out? "More like a limpet." Swords were drawn. "Please don't cut off my head, that would be most uncomfortable."

"For you or for me?" The Warden wisely asked. See, that's why _he's_ the leader.

I allowed a rue grin. "Me, mostly, but it depends on how well you handle emotional trauma. The sight usually drives people to therapy."

"Who are you, really? What are you not telling us? What are you doing here?" Wynne asked, staff levelled threateningly, as if I would just spill my life story. Pah. And she calls me naïve.

I could have fought my way out if necessary, but that would've been arduous, and twisted word games and keeping track of lies annoys me, so I took a more honest approach. "Harry Potter, wizard, grew up in a cupboard, etc, started using magic at eleven, blah blah. Most of what I've told you already is downright truthful. I'm here because I am bored, not to spy or sabotage; the world doesn't revolve around you, you know."

Leliana's fingers twitched on her bowstring. Such impatience. "You are omitting something."

"Only several hundred years of my life. I lost count; it's depressing after a while." _That_ floored them. Heheh.

"You do yourself an injustice. With a lovely face like yours, you cannot be more than seventeen, surely?" tsked Zevran, sounding flippant, but amber eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

I shrugged, "The elves were immortal once. Surely the concept isn't too foreign?"

"You are not an elf, so why you?"

"My life is a cosmic conspiracy. I can't grow old, in a sense. Remember when you were a teenager? The mood swings, the constant drama that you perceived your life to be, your frequent stupidity and immaturity? Well, I am cursed to be a teenager _for-e-ver_."

"That does it. Young man, you are going to the Tower. No, don't you dare contradict this Aedan, this boy is a perfect example of why some mages must be removed from society to avoid harming themselves," Old Hag interjected, her voice set in a preachy manner.

"_Young man?_ Fine, don't believe me, see if I care. And I'll visit the Tower when I feel like it." The advantage of telling the unbelievable truth is that they usually don't press for more. Then, only immature insolence is necessary to affirm disbelief and blessed peace and quiet.

Aedan interrupted me before I could really get rolling, "How can you prove it?"

"How would you _like_ me to prove it?"

"Let him throw himself at the Archdemon, test his immortality then," Sten interrupted.

Aedan rounded on the giant, "Hey, _I_ recruit the lunatics."

"He is clearly insane, He fits your criteria. Let us move on."

I'm glad it didn't come to blows. They probably would have succeeded in hacking me to pieces, and they're really persistent, so the process would have repeated itself at least ten times with increasing more creative methods until they accepted that they couldn't kill me.

I hope at least Shmeebles would've tried to avenge my suffering.


	5. Avoiding shopping is worth the cost

**Day 23 – Night, The Horse's Breath inn**

Last night sucked. I thought I'd put them firmly on the thought train that pegged me as being a little psycho, but a bit scrambled in the way that is more likely to send me off hugging bunnies than dancing through entrains under the moon.

I wasn't as successful as I'd thought.

They tied me up for the night. To the assassin. They even gave him firm instructions to "deal" with me if I lost control.

Now that I think about it, that could've been taken entirely the wrong way. Not that either of our thoughts were along those lines at the time, possibilities for crude humour be damned.

Poor Zev. Gone was the casual companionship, instead there was an influx of suspicion and worry. I wouldn't like to be tied to a mad person either. The idea is about as appealing as being tied to a twitchy assassin.

It was a looong night.

It didn't get much better.

"Shmeebles! Where are you, you fruit basket?"

Yeah, _that_ was my morning.

I eventually found that pest, but not before coaxing it out from where it was snuggling up to Alistair's pack.

The battle was only half won by the time I got it out in the open; I then had to get it on my back. It kept squirming, trying to get away, which was _really_ disconcerting.

"I know I smell, you don't have to rub it in," I grumbled, causing Leliana to grin and lighten the atmosphere somewhat.

All day, I made a point to act no differently than I'd been all trip. I annoyed Alistair, tried to get a response out of Sten and debated the necessity of learning Chantry laws with Wynne. They were… frosty around me, to say the least. Hours of single-minded normality later, they thawed slightly, reassured by my harmless nattering.

It really is guilty until proven innocent around this lot.

We arrived in Denerim. Smells charmingly like a sewer. We didn't see much of the city before dark fell and we ended up in an inn. I had to scourfigy the bed before I felt it was safe to use.

They don't really have vodka here, which is enough to make me cry, but they've got ale. As Zevran accurately says, it tastes like piss. It's slightly improved by chilling it, but Wynne called that a frivolous use of magic and yapped at me for an hour while everyone one else glared at me for setting her off again.

What's the point of having magic if you're only ever going to use it for things the Chantry sanctions?

I find it amusing how, if you want healing or fireballs on call, you pay the Chantry for the use of the Maker-damned mages. I don't think this world has worked out that whenever someone tells you to believe something, you have to ask yourself who's benefiting from it, especially if there is money involved. As I can see it, by monopolising magic… well, the Chantry can pay for all their gold statues and freaky dresses.

Leliana is the only one who speaks to me about my claims to immortality. If I didn't know any better, I'd think she wasn't just humouring me. Maybe she's crazier than I thought.

"When were you born?" She asked over a tankard.

"Six hundred and something years ago."

"And something?"

"I was unconscious a lot, and they just _had_ to make it all so much more complicated by changing the calendar a couple hundred years ago."

"They did? I do not recall this."

Shrug.

"I have been wondering something?"

"Yeah? Lay it on me, then."

"Are you long lived, eternally young or unable to die?"

Now that would be a good philosophical discussion. "I haven't changed since I was seventeen so I assume I cannot physically age, and, technically, I _have_ died a few times."

"Oh? This should be good," the elf butted in.

"Quiet, Zev. You can poison me if you must, but painlessly if you please. I've drowned, had my soul kicked out, been bodily dismantled, been plain old stabbed – funny story, actually, I'll tell you that one later – oh, and I do _not_ recommend being burnt alive."

I'm quite apathetic to my past, to most things, actually. It's probably unhealthy, but it doesn't feel like my story, I find it too hard to relate to now. The novelty wears off quickly.

"Oh, immortality sounds horrible! How did you get yourself into such a situation?" Oh Leliana, always sympathetic.

"Pace yourself. I can't tell you all my secrets at once. You'd grow bored of my old stories and then who would I enchant with the good ol' days?" I didn't want to answer. That particular story– that one _is_ still painful.

...

**Day 24 – Lunch, a dingy pub somewhere**

First off, I have no idea where I am. Leliana dragged me out shopping – and Merlin, doesn't _that_ just bring back knee-shaking memories. And to think I thought my daughter was bad. It was the slang that did it – I couldn't understand what she was saying half the time. Leliana isn't much better. She makes fabric colours and fragrances sound like such a serious business, most of the time I'm sure she was speaking a different language.

Anyway, my desperate attempts to get separated in the busy marketplace worked, but now I'm lost. Don't even know which tavern I ended up in, seeing as the sign is so worn. That should give a pretty good idea of the quality of cesspool I stumbled into.

Come to think of it, I should probably find my way back. The others might doubt my intentions if I'm out of sight for too long, though I'm a little afraid to be in _her_ company again.

She wants to buy me light armour, no matter how many times I insist that I'm perfectly fine with what I have. So what if it's orange and green? By the time of my spontaneous trip, the colours were the one of the only good things in life that remained.

But I suppose I cannot avoid her squeamish girlyness forever. Do they have a word for that? They should. It deserves a word, a really repugnant one. That sounded mean.

I meant it.

Here come some roughish looking fellows, maybe they will prove more entertai–-

...

Well that was rude. And look, there thuggish paws have made dirty marks on my paper! For that, I hope they suffer while their family jewels defrost.

They were after money. Apparently my clothes are of exceptional make, even if my fashion leaves much to be desired. Maybe Leliana has a point.

That kid looked pretty well off himself, though.

Young'uns these days, honestly, no respect.

It's quite dark outside. Time for the trusty Point Me.

For the record, I will never vocally admit that Leliana has a point, whether it is well earned or not.

As I was leaving, the prissy bloke and his thuggish entourage showed up with a few more guards. Turns out he was the son of some Lord or other. He wanted me arrested for assault.

I sent them packing with some lovely confundus charms. It was beautiful work, I managed to convince one that he was a chicken.

Predictably, Wynne noticed my good mood and let loose on a tirade after I regaled the whole incident. Something about using magic, drawing attention to myself and by extension the Wardens, attacking someone of (deluded) authority – there was more, much more, but I managed to tune it out. I'm getting better. A few more days and I should have it down to an art.

On the up side, I've earned some points with Morrigan. She looked far too amused in that sadistic way of hers. Everyone else just disapproved. And I really cared about their opinions because in all my years there has been _no_ greater lesson that the one that taught me to hold popular opinion in high regard. _Riiiiight._

...

**Day 25 – Night, under a tree**

We didn't spend long in the city, left just a few hours ago. Aedan wanted to put some distance between us by nightfall.

Denerim was making the Wardens jumpy, probably because at every juncture there were pictures of Alistair. I don't blame them for being appalled at the wanted posters; the lack of quality and effort was simply astounding. And the bounty? Insulting.

Loghain has got them pegged for betraying the King and all but causing a Blight, but from the reward you'd think he doesn't really want their heads parted from their bodies all that badly.

I wonder what I would have to do to get one higher…

Now that's a dangerous train of thought. Must desist, like right now.

The Warden got another tent, at least. He seems to have forgiven Zevran for the whole attempted murder incident. It only took… ooh, about a month, by my count. They really hold a grudge. I'll keep that in mind.

As it turns out, the assassin is my best friend right now, not to mention the only one that I've had for a while. I'm not sure if that's just really, really sad.

I explained the knifing incident to him. That death happened back when I had less than a century under my belt, but it's one of those things that you never really forget. Three parts embarrassing, two parts cool, all summed up with a final slip just when all was going well.

I was in one of my favourite taverns where the dark corners, loud voices and shifty eyes still got my blood pumping and I could imagine the danger. I still got uppity and arrogant in my invulnerability, wound up annoying the wrong people (or the right ones to teach me a lesson) and it doesn't take a genius to figure out how that went.

The next day, I clambered out of the deep well where my body had been dumbed, completely drenched and numb from my fingers to my toes, then I tracked down my murderer and startled the crap out of him. He was feeling guilty, I was feeling cold, so I stole his blankets, called us even and crashed on his couch.

He was a decent guy, too honest for our world. He turned himself in for attempted murder and I got committed to a madhouse. They held me there for a couple weeks, drugged up to my eyeballs when they determined that apparent stockholm syndrome was the least of my worries. I made my escape when I built up enough resistance to the medication to see straight, then apparated out of there in a straightjacket. And wasn't _that_ fun to get out of.

I could answer all Zev's gruesome questions – I remember exactly how it feels to have the cold steel pass between my ribs and to bleed out until the colours faded and the world was overcome by black.

After that, he was more interested to hear about my supposed six-hundred-some years. He is either closer to believing I'm what I say, or he's intrigued despite himself and convinced that I'm a very good liar. I'm both, I'll have you know. Even for all my experience, my stories would be boring without some properly applied embellishments.


	6. Things are blazing

**A/N: Bad news- I have to get stuck into exams for the next few weeks and then I'm going to Spain. The next chapter will be postponed. A while. **

**Day 26 – Night, back of a barn**

Just did my first bit of serious fighting. The others– their faces… I could watch that a hundred times and never get bored. What I wouldn't give for a penseive right now…

That'll teach them for doubting me.

Darkspawn are truly dreadful, they exude some presence that's just pure malice, it's enough to rot the ground they stand on. And their teeth, but maybe that's less from the evil and more from their diet. Still, their teeth are fearful, definitely a dentists nightmare.

Fighting them wasn't like any other battle I'd been in, this side of the Veil. A couple of bandits here and there, an angry tree or three, the odd suicidal animal, but never a large troupe of darkspawn.

These darkspawn were just the "little ones", though I don't know how that flies, because quite a few were over six feet tall. Still, even without ogres or mages, two score is nothing to laugh at. The sheer number had Alistair looked uncharacteristically serious, and Aedan was downright grim.

They charged in, swords literally blazing (note to self: must learn how to do that, win major points for presentation). I was told to hold back with Morrigan, Wynne and Leliana, but as my long range arsenal is significantly less damaging than my in-your-face spells, I took this as more of a suggestion than an order.

A swipe across my body, fingers bent like claws, and the line of monsters charging me stumbled back, gashes littering their torsos and black blood soon sizzled on the grass.

Unfortunately, without a wand I am forced to be more confrontational. Stunners, binders, disarming spells, even most jinxes just won't cut it – the energy just splutters out after a few metres and the adversary ends up looking at you funny. To get any sort of use out of those spells, I'd need to be touching them. Kind of defeats the purpose, seeing as those spells are the ones I'd rather use when I want to deal with someone _before_ they get within range.

Still, I have my favourites: incendio, impedimenta and diffindo. I also make a mean ice sculpture because although confringo and reducto are useful, if the thing I want to blow up is fleshy and right beside me, blasting curses are definitely a last resort. Do not want to be picking pieces of darkspawn out of my hair, thank you very much.

I charred some, sliced others, even caught up to Sten and petrified a midget that was about to stick a dagger in his thigh. He didn't thank me, actually he almost took my head off with a one of those deceptively casual sweeps of his huge sword.

Alistair and Aedan worked in tandem, but Zevran was more pleased to have my support as we braced for the second wave.

By the time we were finished, there was a small pile of brutally slashed and still smoking corpses and me in the centre of it, grinning a little scarily.

And to think, until then I was doing well to convince them of my innocent nature. As it is, I've had to give up on "entirely harmless", that's just not showing convincing results. Now I only resolved to show that I'm not a demon and I'm harmless to _them_. I don't know why I bother.

I brushed some body matter off my arm. "So, I'm very good for someone that's been learning for only seventeen years, right?"

"Well…"

I'm too old to be properly affected by awkward silences, but I inflict them like a boss.

Get this – Wynne disapproved. Maybe because my magic was effective in a way her professors didn't teach and her religious profiteers didn't sanction.

No matter. Zevran has conceded my brilliance. As per out bet, he has to wash my dishes for the rest of the week.

We ran into bandits again this afternoon. Or they ran at us, with pointy things. Much pointer than the darkspawns' at any rate (they were basically brandishing crowbars at us).

They were not hard to deal with, but a sword nicked my shoulder while I was otherwise occupied by flambéing idiots. I was most uncomfortable while the flesh and bone shifted back into place, and while incapacitated by the side of the highway, it occurred to me that I had weakened in my resolve to learn to wield this place's traditional weapons. I may be immortal or the next worst thing, but I'm no masochist – getting hurt _irks_ me.

I'll see if I can wheedle dagger lessons out of Zev. I bet he's going to make me let him out of dishwashing duty. Bugger.

I should stop with the switching of topics, I get that. Blame the malady of your choice. Or the sugar; Aedan just gave me some. I haven't had such in years, it's such a rush to the system. I don't know _what_ he was thinking.

...

**Day 26 – Not much later**

And Zevran is out of dishwashing duty. Can't be helped. He's looking very thrilled at the prospect of sparing with (read: thrashing) me. Currently, he's sitting by the fire, so the warm glow falls over the contours of his muscles just right, while sharpening a dagger. The whole effect is emphasised by the ominous glint in his eye.

He's practiced that look, I'd put money on that.

I get the impression he is not going to be a kind teacher. Well, they are fond of the idea that it's only fun if you get a scar out of it.

I do not get scars anymore. What does that say about my prospects, I wonder?

...

**Still Day 26 – the world of pain**

The leather hilt was rough and felt warm in my grip – a grip that was apparently wrong, if we are to judge from the number of times the assassin corrected it. I'm sure I got it after the third try, and that the rest were just used as an excuse to invade my personal space.

I didn't get much warning – he was darting away one moment and swinging for my side in the next. My reflexes brought the short sword up in time, which was just as well, because his method of teaching involves a lot of learning by accumulating injuries.

"Bueno! But move your feet, now brace, yes, flex your knees. You have danced? This is not so different."

The blow reminded me of how it felt when the nasty tree kicked me. The angle was awkward, and as a result my wrist nearly buckled. Zevran exploited this by wrenching his blade and my grip was easily broken. My dagger landed in the grass a meter away, and a swift kick sat me on my arse in the dirt.

Another student may have expected the teacher to stop just then, allow them to get to their feet and give some pointers.

I've had nastier teachers.

The evil taskmaster kept coming, leaving me to deal as I could; roll, scramble, block. He was deadly fast, striking with the speed and finesse of a snake. After a desperate and brief grapple, I ended up kneeling with him looming over me, dagger poised a handbreadth away, only kept at bay by my trembling arms braced against his.

He grinned, showing an intimidating amount of gleaming teeth. "Oh, this will be most fun."

There was none of the usual humour in that smile. He was enjoying himself, for sure, but fighting and killing was something of a serious point. That smile was all shark.

"So how are you going to break this stalemate, hmm? The dirt is loose, it would be quite unwelcome in my eyes, I should imagine," he suggested mildly.

Except predictability is the most crippling weakness of all. Instead of trying to force against him (an exercise of utter futility) I slid my legs out from under me, drove his hands into the dirt and rolled backwards.

I didn't really get the drop on him; his fighting style was far too adaptable for that, but he seemed far more interested than mere seconds ago.

Summoning the dagger the brief distance, I managed to meet his downward slash with my blade instead of my face.

Muscle memory at a high level fades quickly, but if it is done enough, an echo is retained for a long, long time. I would've had to have practiced at least weekly to maintain a level of agility acceptable by my old duelling instructor. My reactions were sluggish, my reading of his movement out of practice. But the very basics are still there, and they translated across reasonable well to this new demanding skillset.

This brought back memories – oh but the thrill, the danger, how I'd missed it.

I grinned then, and it may have been a tad feral.

"You have done this before," the assassin accused, fending off a clumsy strike with careless ease. I still haven't got the stabbing right, it is a little different to brandishing a wand.

"Something similar, long ago." I'm ashamed to say my breathing was heavy.

We continued for much longer, until I was shaking with exertion and Morrigan yelled at us to keep it down. Right now, I can barely hold my pen, let alone keep my eyes open. Passing out sounds _divine_.

...

**Day 27 – Night, Redcliffe **

I'll be brief, seeing as I have been recruited to help deal with a mysterious monster infestation.

I ache all over, but it is the good, satisfying kind. I woke up with my muscles on fire, and then we had to walk through the morning to get to this accursed city. It doesn't smell as bad as Denerim in the way of manure, but there's this pungent undertone of rotting flesh.

It's as pleasant as it sounds.

Aedan is annoyed. He was muttering something earlier about how no one can wait until after he's gotten his treaty acknowledged to kill each other. He has a point. It's very inconsiderate.

We're going to have to fight soon.


End file.
